éclats
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: a collection of short h/c fics, because I wasn't strong enough to resist the call of whumptober. god help me. (please note that the overall rating will reflect the highest rated chapter, and each chapter will include its own warnings as needed.)
1. stabbed

_they always try to stay together_

* * *

. . .

* * *

It's mud and rain and chaos and cacophony, it's hair in his eyes and slippery, unstable ground underfoot and shouting and shooting and the clanging of metal on metal coming from all around him, it's the burn of every breath in his lungs and the sweat and blood smeared tackily on his face and the neverending push and pull between leaden exhaustion and furious survival.

It is, in a word, war.

It's their fifth engagement of the day, and the sun is starting to set through the haze of smoke and gunpowder that hangs thickly in the air.

Athos had shouted at the general at the order for the fourth, come within a hair's breadth of barefaced insubordination, nearly refused to send his company back onto the battlefield, but the general had held his ground, and two-hundred-odd exhausted men had been expected to stand theirs.

By now, what feels like hours into their _fifth engagement,_ even Athos is too tired to seethe. They try to stay together, the three of them, as much as they can. It's such a habit by now that it barely seems to involve conscious thought, which is good, because none of them have anything left to spare on thinking. They only act.

Swipe, parry, deflect, lunge.

Duck a blow, roll to standing, shove and punch.

Block, block, counter, dispatch, turn to the next.

Slip in the mud, stagger up, pray there's nothing coming down towards his neck—

—there was, but Porthos blocked it and the clang reverberates in his empty, thoughtless head, but now his flank is open— no, it's guarded again, Porthos has always had a quick recovery, look for Athos, look for Athos—

—there he is, holding his own but clearly flagging, and should he go to him or stay and help Porthos—

He only pauses for a moment, waiting for whatever it is that will nudge him into a decision, and that's when something slams into his back.

He stumbles forward two steps before his legs give out, sending him to his knees in the mud but his hands haven't moved to catch him, so he keeps going over and feels the muted shock of his face striking the ground.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos yells, and an instant later Athos is shouting, "No!" and it's wrenching and terrified, wrapped in so much fear and pain, or is that just the pain in his back, spreading sickly and stickily through him, starting at his shoulder and leeching wrongness down his side and into his chest.

Porthos _roars_. The ground shakes and the air reverberates with the sound of clashing violence. "Get him out of here!" Athos calls above the din. "I'll cover you!"

"We can't go far," Porthos calls back, suddenly closer.

"Doesn't matter! Just get him out!"

"I hope to God you don't remember this," Porthos says, sounding oddly far away again, and then his back erupts into agony as the ground drops out from under him.


	2. bloody hands

_Athos has a crisis of conscience_

* * *

. . .

* * *

Athos won't stop wiping his hands. Against his shirt, against his trousers, against each other, like there's an unpleasant sensation he can't quite get free of.

He's already drunk, drunker than he should be, drunker than he should have been, but Aramis and Porthos take him up to the room he keeps at the garrison for emergencies (like this) and don't stop him from pouring himself another glass.

He drains it in a single swallow, then sets the cup down and strides over to the basin in the corner to rinse his hands.

"Do you even know you're doing that?" Porthos asks quietly.

"They're dirty," Athos says tightly. "They _feel_ dirty."

He _is_ drunk, if he's admitting that.

"Athos, he'll be fine," Aramis says for what has to be the fourth time since they got back. "We wanted it to look good, and it did. I checked it – it's just a graze. The boy's simply a better actor than we expected, that's all."

The splashing of the water stills. "It was supposed to be his arm," Athos whispers, barely audible. "It was supposed to be his arm," he says again, louder, "and I shot him _in the chest!"_

"Keep your voice down," Porthos snaps. "This isn't over yet, and people need to believe tomorrow, don't they?"

"You grazed his side," Aramis corrects gently, a beat later. "More authentic, and no more dangerous. This is to our advantage."

" _Our advan—"_ Athos cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. "Please do not expect me to be happy," he says, very clearly but still to the basin and not to them, "that I _missed."_

For long moments, there is silence.

"Well," Porthos finally says, "I don't think we ever told you to be _happy_ about it." Athos doesn't move; Porthos sighs, and goes to him. He's standing with his head bowed over the basin, arms locked straight and hands gripping the edge so hard his knuckles stand out white. "This was the plan," Porthos reminds him. He drops a hand on Athos' shoulder, feels the tension singing through him. "Plans always go a little bit wrong, that's just how life is. But d'Artagnan's gonna be fine. I was right there, I had my hands on him, and he was surprised, he was in pain, and he was bleeding, but he wasn't dying. He was playing it up."

"How do you know?" Athos breathes. "How can you be sure?"

Porthos squeezes his shoulder. "We had a signal. He was to give it if he was all right to go on, and he gave it. He'll be stiff and sore and a real cranky bastard for a few days, but he's not going to die. You don't have his blood on your hands."

Aramis joins them and takes Athos' other side. "I know you don't like leaving him with her," he adds, "but she'll make sure he's taken care of. She wants him to be able to kill you, after all." Aramis claps his back encouragingly. "Now come on – you've had a lot to drink, and tomorrow's your big day, so go to bed and sleep it off."


	3. insomnia

_Aramis wanders the halls of the monastery at night_

* * *

 _. . ._

* * *

There's something simultaneously soothing and foreboding about hewn stone at night.

Soothing in its agelessness, foreboding in its chill. He suspects that as he comes to know these halls and chambers, stairwells and chapels, cells and cellars, the stone will lose its threat, but he's too recently retired from a life of violence, and he can't help but strain for the sound of footsteps echoing elsewhere in the monastery.

So he focuses instead on the agelessness, well-worn rosary beads slipping through his fingers one by one as he contemplates what it is to be vast.

His God is vast – even more vast, perhaps, than the Church would like to believe. Aramis' God shelters the sinners as well as the righteous. Aramis' God welcomes all those who love, regardless of whom they love, and He watches over all those who fight, provided they fight for a just cause. Aramis' God still has a place for him, even after all that he's done, because Aramis' God is bigger than law, bigger than politics, bigger than what the selected Latin writings of the Bible say He is.

Aramis' God is in everything, and He _is_ everything. Aramis' God is the sunrise through fog, the silk thread that closes a wound, the steady gait of his horse, the hitch of a lover's breath as he gives, the catch of his own as he takes. Aramis' God is the grief of Savoy, the pain of his brothers' injuries, the thrill of a stolen kiss, the pounding of his heart as he'd awaited execution for a crime he still cannot bring himself to feel guilty about.

Aramis' God is in him, and Aramis' God is everywhere, and Aramis' God always has been and always will be, and how, _how_ is that not enough to comfort him?

He turns a corner at random, and finds himself in one of the smaller chapels.

Perhaps another night he will enter, and kneel in contemplation, but tonight he needs to move. His feet are restless, and his spirit is, too. He's never been comfortable with stillness, especially not when he's alone. That's something he's come here to learn – how to be silent, how to be still, how to face the violent tumult of his memories and wants without being swept away by them – but not tonight.

Tonight, he will walk, and try to ignore the yawning ache in his chest.

He backs out into the hall again, and resumes his wandering.

If he is a pilgrim, what is he seeking? Forgiveness? Absolution? Redemption? Peace?

He imagines Porthos' chuckle at that. _Peace,_ he'd scoff. _What good have_ you _ever gotten out of_ peace _?_

 _The opportunity to make trouble,_ Athos would point out dryly in response, and oh, God, they're still so close to him but he's left them behind.

He stops, and turns so he can rest his head against the wall. The stone is rough, but cool.

 _Please, God,_ he prays. _As You are in them, please look after them. Please keep them safe. Please let us find each other again someday._


	4. no, stop!

_Athos and d'Artagnan are held for questioning_

* * *

 _. . ._

* * *

"All right," Athos finally says, "that's enough." He catches d'Artagnan's outraged look, and stares back, expressionless and unblinking. He does expressionless and unblinking very well. "It's not so vital that it's worth his life," he goes on, doing his best to sound bored, "and I really do have better things to be doing today."

"What?" d'Artagnan demands. "Athos, you can't just—" A fist slams into his stomach, and he doubles over with a wheeze.

"It's not that vital," Athos says again, firmly.

"It's the principle of the thing," d'Artagnan gasps, earning another blow for his troubles, this time to the face.

"I said enough," Athos reminds them.

D'Artagnan spits blood and sits up again, leaving himself defiantly open and unguarded. His assailant steps back and turns to glare at Athos.

"Ducours is on his way to Conques," Athos tells him. In the background, d'Artagnan lets out a noise of frustration. "He plans to spend at least one night there before heading on to Toulouse, but I can't guarantee it. You may have to wait for him on the road."

"Wasn't so hard now, was it?" the man sneers. Athos looks up at him blankly, memorising the placement of scars on his face (small round one under his left eye, looks like a burn; longer one across his forehead, thinner, older, better healed, likely a dueling accident when he was younger), the shape of his nose, and the color of his eyes. He will remember this face when he sees it again.

"If you'd be so kind as to untie my companion, monsieur." He gets a snort in response, but d'Artagnan's hands are unchained in short order, and then he's being hauled up from the chair and shoved in Athos' direction. "Easy," Athos murmurs as he stumbles across the cell.

"I cannot believe you," d'Artagnan hisses. "All that talk about honour and courage, yet the moment things turn south, you break."

"I didn't break, I made a calculated decision. Ducours and his party are well-armed, and are carrying nothing of any real importance. It would be an inconvenience to lose those documents, but not a disaster, and I will remind you one last time before I lose my temper that you may not yet be a musketeer, but you are still under my command and you will never speak to me like that again."

Their captor unlocks Athos' manacles while the two of them glare icy fury at one another, then draws his pistol and levels it at them. "Stay here to a count of one hundred," he orders. "Your weapons are in the stables with your horses. If you pursue us, you will be shot."

"Understood," Athos says. D'Artagnan glowers.

He backs out of the room, pistol still trained on them, and doesn't lower it until he's out of sight. As soon as he is, d'Artagnan deflates, and lets Athos help him into the chair, where he sits hunched, holding his ribs and taking even, shallow breaths.

"He was holding something," d'Artagnan mutters, all anger gone. "Weights, I think. Something heavy."

"I saw," Athos says shortly. "Can you walk?"

D'Artagnan nods, then winces.

"Can you ride?"

"Needs must," d'Artagnan quips, but it's pale.

"I don't have anything to wrap your ribs," Athos warns, though he really doesn't know why he bothers. D'Artagnan nods more carefully. Athos sighs, and lays a hand on the back of d'Artagnan's neck. "Rest a bit. We're in no hurry."

"How long do you think it'll take for them to realise you've sent them in the wrong direction?" d'Artagnan asks after a while.

"Oh, quite a long time, I'd imagine. They didn't seem very bright."

D'Artagnan hums in agreement. "Still, it was kind of them to fall into our trap so neatly."

"I don't know that I'd call it neat," Athos drawls. They're both filthy, and d'Artagnan's face is going to be a single enormous contusion by the end of the day, to say nothing of his chest, but at least he's not likely to have suffered any serious internal damage. "Make sure Aramis gets a look at you when we get back, will you?"

"Worried?"

"You remember we do still have to catch these men tomorrow."

D'Artagnan groans, and pushes himself up. "Fine. Let's go."

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _Hello, everybody, I have been seduced to the dark side by the siren song of whumptober. Updates will be more or less daily, but feel free to come bother me if I let it lag too long._

 _Thank you for reading! As always, please feel free to leave any feedback you'd like to._


	5. posioned

_it's a very long night for all of them. set during "fool's gold."_

 _(warnings for some slightly disturbing descriptions of a prolonged hallucination)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

Athos has been drunk before. He has been exhausted, he has been fevered, he has been trapped in the Hell of his very own making, he has known the heart-pounding terror of seeing his friends cut down around him in battle, he has seen the dead return to life in the burning hull of his former life, and somehow he has never known _this._

He flits in and out of his body, by turn aware and lost just as frequently as he flashes between torturous heat and aching cold and dips into and out of memories and dreams.

The longest night of his life is built of moments.

He's shaking, and he knows that he's in a bed, curled on his side and trying to hold himself together in his own arms, and he knows that Aramis is standing behind him, reaching around to press a cool cloth against his forehead, yet at the same time he is walking through a forest that's too bright, too quiet, and the presence behind him is Grimaud, and the gentle touch of the cloth against his forehead is the cruel weight of the chain around his throat—

He's on his back, sweating and gasping and staring up at a ceiling he knows is there but cannot see, sees only a night sky with too many stars and a shadow looming over him, and is there a sword in his hand or isn't there, because he is two people at once and the pull between them is going to tear him apart—

"Breathe, Athos," says Porthos' voice, echoing from all sides at once. "Come on, just breathe, you'll be all right but you have to _calm down,"_ but his heart is beating outside of his body, slick and pulsing in his hand, and the blood is running down his arm and why isn't he dead yet, _why isn't he dead—_

He's climbing down into a cellar that's more like a dungeon with every step, and the torch in his hand is throwing the wrong kind of light but it's enough to see d'Artagnan sitting against the wall with his throat slit and his eyes missing, d'Artagnan who raises an arm to point behind Athos, and when Athos turns it's Anne and Grimaud together, flickering and blurring into one another, but the bloody knife in their hand stays the same—

He's in bed again and he's cold but he thinks he's too tired to shiver until a raven caws and his whole body convulses—

He's in bed again and he's hot and Aramis is still there or is he there again did he leave is he back what is going on _what is going on—_

There's a pistol in his hand and he's drunk—

He can't let them see the house, he can't—

—d'Artagnan grabs the barrel to pull it away—

Aramis is being led up onto the scaffold—

—Porthos' shoulder is festering—

—he should intervene, he should rescue him, he should do _something_ —

Grimaud steps out of the shadows, sword raised—

—he's dying by inches—

—the noose is around Aramis' neck and green eyes (wrong color wrong shape) close just before the lever is pulled—

—Porthos dies.

—Aramis drops.

—the sword falls.

—he fires.


	6. betrayed

_this isn't the sort of reward that any sane man would want. (set after the finale because w Ha T tH e FuC K)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _General du Vallon._ It has a nice ring to it, he's got to admit, and he can't deny the pride and honour of knowing that Athos spoke for him to the Queen, and that the Queen listened and found him worthy, but it's not a reward.

A reward would be a short leave of absence to spend with Elodie and her – _their_ – daughter before returning to help rebuild the garrison, and a small increase in pay to account for the fact that it's not just him anymore. He's got a family now, and he wants to do right by them. He _will_ do right by them, even if he has to do it from the front.

Being a general is less dangerous than being a soldier – if you're willing to send your men where you won't go, that is, if you're willing to stay tucked up safe in your tent while you order your men to throw themselves in front of pikes and cannons, if you don't have a lick of conscience or a shard of spine. Porthos won't be that kind of general. He can't be.

He will lead his men, not just direct them, and he'd meant what he'd said to Elodie about not wanting to give up soldiering, but he'd also meant what he'd told her about being terrified, about losing himself, about needing his brothers to give him the strength to return to the fight again and again and again.

But they're not here now. He knows he has it in him to stand and fight regardless, but he's never done it alone before.

Aramis' rosary is packed carefully in his bag, along with Athos' locket, bundled in several new headscarves Constance had made for him. D'Artagnan had offered him a lock of his hair with an almost straight face, then jumped back with pure terror in his eyes when Porthos had shrugged and started to unsheath his knife. They'd all had a good laugh at that. They'd all needed one.

("Promise me," d'Artagnan had said as they hugged in farewell one last time. "Promise me you'll be back."

"I promise," Porthos had said, but d'Artagnan shook his head against Porthos' chest and somehow wrapped his arms even tighter. He wasn't the same whelp who'd stormed into the garrison and blindly challenged Athos to a duel to the death, but he still seemed so young sometimes.

" _Promise me,"_ he'd said again, and this time Porthos understood. He tucked d'Artagnan's head under his chin and held on tight.

"I refuse to die.")

"All right, Brujon," he says now. They've reached the company Porthos will be leading, and the kid's getting paler with every step. "Rule number one: you stay by me, always, at least until you've found some other men you trust to watch your back. Things get ugly out there, and even the strongest men can break, and you don't want to be relying on them when they do.

"Rule number two: we refuse to die."

His heart is pounding with memories, and his mouth is dry with cannon smoke, but he tamps it down. It won't be four years this time, not with the Queen as regent and working to make peace as quick as she can.

"You and d'Artagnan were yelling that," Brujon remembers. "When we were digging in the rubble. It's how we found you." He still looks terrified, but that just means he's sane. He's still moving forward, and _that's_ what means he's brave.

"See?" Porthos claps a hand on his shoulder. "Works every time. Stay with me, stay alive, and we'll make it home."

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _sorry this isn't "whump" in the traditional sense, but I finished the show last night and this is what I had to say about it._


	7. kidnapped

_the dauphin is kidnapped; the inseparables go through merry hell getting him back_

* * *

. . .

* * *

"Sometime this _evening_ would be nice, d'Artagnan," Aramis hisses at him from where he stands beside him, pressed back against the wall with his pistol up and ready to fire at anyone who might turn the corner and come upon their nascent rescue attempt. Porthos is further down the hall, stripping the now-unconscious (or maybe they're dead; he doesn't know and he _really_ doesn't care) guards of their weapons, powder, bullets, and anything else that will help them make it out in one piece. Athos is elsewhere, preparing to secure their exit, but they can't have long now until his distraction.

"This isn't exactly _easy,"_ d'Artagnan snaps back in a whisper, but doesn't pause in his careful prodding for a moment, even though his hands are slippery with blood (most of it his, probably, but not all) and his vision is starting to suffer for the loss of it. "How is it that you've never learned to do this?"

"Less talk, more pick."

They're all tense, all nervous, all strung out and exhausted from too much fight and too little sleep.

The Dauphin has been missing for almost a week.

The lock finally gives, and he swings the heavy door open, expecting Aramis to go charging in, but Aramis shakes his head tightly. "You can't shoot with that arm," he reminds him. "I'll cover you."

The ragged hole in his right arm gives a sick throb at the mention of it, but d'Artagnan quashes it and ducks into the room. It's fine enough, he supposes absently, for a stolen prince, but that doesn't mean it hasn't been a prison.

"Your Highness," he whispers, moving across the darkened room as quickly as he can without being threatening, hunched low and with his hands held up clearly against the spill of light coming from the hall as he approaches the little figure huddled on the bed. "Your Highness, my name is d'Artagnan, and I'm a musketeer. My friends and I are going to take you home. Are you hurt?"

The "No," is sniffled and wet, but the Dauphin isn't yet old enough to be able to hide pain, and there's none in his voice.

"Good," d'Artagnan says, fighting through a surge of lightheadedness, "that's good. Come on, now, let's get you out of here." He holds out a hand, and the Dauphin comes scrambling off the bed, his own tiny hand held out to take it.

Several things happen at once.

There's a shot, a shout, the unmistakable pounding of feet in the hall outside, and a one-two cry of "D'Artagnan! _Aramis!"_

D'Artagnan _grabs_ the boy, snatches him around the waist with his left arm and scoops him to his chest – getting blood all over his clothes, the king is going to _kill_ him when he sees – and bursts out into hall.

It's chaos. Aramis has blood running freely down one side of his face, but his motions are still crisp and sure as he kills two men in quick succession with two different blades. Porthos stands a little way off, holding his own but not looking happy about it. He catches sight of d'Artagnan and jerks his head down the hall, in the direction they'd come from. "Go!" he calls. "Get him out of here! We'll be right behind you!"

That's when Athos' distraction shakes the night: three barrels of gunpowder, well applied. Their opponents only pause for a second, but it's enough for Aramis and Porthos to disengage and go tearing after him, close on his heels.

He's always been the fastest of them, but now he's carrying a five-year-old child and missing what feels like a fairly significant part of his upper arm, so the other two catch up easily (Aramis in spite of his head wound, Porthos in spite of his badly wrenched ankle). Shots whistle around them, and the sounds of angry pursuit crescendo behind them, but then they're out, tasting the crisp autumn air, and Athos has their horses ready and waiting.

"Take him!" d'Artagnan shouts, but it's more of a gasp, and all but tosses the Dauphin, the future king of France, up to Athos, who's already mounted. His right arm almost refuses to cooperate, but desperation is the mother of all achievement; Athos catches the prince, settles him in front of him, and wheels away into the night.

He turns to his own horse and staggers, but there are hands around his waist, hoisting him up roughly so that he can scramble into the saddle without having to lift himself.

Habit tells him to wait until he knows the others are ready, but instinct tells him to go, _now,_ and it's instinct that wins.

He digs in his heels and takes off after Athos and the prince.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _this arc will be continued in the chapter "exhaustion"_


	8. fever

_battle waits for no man (follows chapter 1)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

"It's time," Athos says, brushing aside the flaps of the tent. "Be ready in ten minutes."

The low murmur of conversation inside stills; voices fall silent and motions become tighter, sharper. A moment ago they were just men, but now they're turning back into soldiers.

Tent by tent, he's been getting men ready to fight, and this is the last of them.

They're already dressed and armored, so all that's left is collect their weapons and their will to face the battlefield.

Athos makes his way through them, nodding here and clapping a shoulder there, heading for the corner where he knows he'll find the other two.

Porthos has his leathers on but not his armor, yet, and he looks up almost guiltily at Athos' approach. "I'll be ready in a minute," he says quietly, then looks down at d'Artagnan one more time before pushing himself up.

The cot shifts with the motion, and d'Artagnan blinks groggily awake.

"You leaving?" he slurs, eyes sliding between Athos and Porthos without seeming to really understand.

"Just for a bit," Porthos tells him. That's definitely a lie. "We'll be back in the afternoon, yeah?" That's only probably a lie; barring miraculous victory or catastrophic failure, they won't be back until almost nightfall. At least that's getting earlier every day.

"You're leaving...without me?" Athos has to look away from the broken expression of betrayal, because d'Artagnan looks young and vulnerable in ways he doesn't know how to handle, and everything in him is crying out against the idea of _leaving him here_ even though it's the only thing they can do.

"You're sick," Athos says shortly, still looking at the canvas of the tent wall behind him. "You're injured. You can't fight."

"I _can,"_ d'Artagnan insists, foolish as only the fevered can be, and starts struggling up. He's hindered by the heavy bandaging strapping his right arm against his chest, and by the short, deep wound in his back that goes all the way to the bone of his shoulder blade, and by the fever simmering out of it, leaving him drunkenly loose and sweating even in the cool air.

They both take a step forward, but it's Porthos who reaches him first and pushes him back down with nothing but the weight of his hand. D'Artagnan goes easily, still with that hurt, yearning look, and Athos makes the mistake of catching his gaze. He's afraid, Athos realises with a lurch, but still himself enough to be ashamed of it. Though he isn't sick enough to say the words ( _yet,_ Athos appends grimly), he clearly doesn't want to be left alone.

Porthos sees it, too, and smooths a hand over d'Artagnan's hair. Uncharacteristically, d'Artagnan allows it. "We will be back," Porthos promises. "And before long, you'll be up again and back to fighting at our side."

 _Lie,_ thinks Athos, but shoves it down. D'Artagnan just nods, eyes falling closed before Athos has time to wonder if their brightness came from fever or tears.

Porthos pulls the blankets back up over his chest and steps back carefully; d'Artagnan doesn't stir, and Porthos backs up to join Athos. They're wasting time, both of them. Athos told the men to be ready in ten minutes and while most of them have already left the tent, Porthos still needs his armor, and Athos needs to stop staring at their third and leave, but he can't. Not yet.

"He should be in the infirmary," Athos murmurs, low enough that only Porthos can hear.

"It's a mess in there right now," Porthos says just as quietly. "There's something nasty doing the rounds. Lots of men getting sick."

Athos swears. "He shouldn't be alone."

"The surgeon knows to come check on him; he's the one who told me to keep him here."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

He can see the moment Porthos' thoughts stray to Aramis, so he keeps his own to himself. It wouldn't really make a difference, since Aramis would have to join them in the fighting, but his very presence had always been a balm at times like this.

Athos puts a hand on Porthos' shoulder and grips it tightly. "Go get your armor on," he says. "We'll hit them hard, and make it quick."

Porthos covers Athos' hand with one of his own, coming dangerously close to smiling. "You know that's my favourite kind of plan."


	9. stranded

_the worst part was being alone_

 _(the only things i know about surviving inclement weather come from the u.s. army survival manual, a couple of star trek fics, and a high school rowing career, so don't think too hard about the logistics of this, okay? just let it happen.)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

The snow isn't accumulating at all on the track, the mud not yet frozen enough, but there's an unmistakable veil of gauzy white gathering on the grass to either side. Beyond that is forest; he knows all too well what that will look like.

"Should we start looking for a place to stop for the night?" d'Artagnan asks, twisting around on his horse to face them. He and Athos are a few lengths ahead of them, with Athos taking point and d'Artagnan content to just let his horse pick its own pace. "It's going to start getting heavier, soon, and I think there's a village not too far up."

"Yeah?" Porthos scoffs. "How d'you know that?"

"I see smoke," d'Artagnan says slowly, almost a question in itself.

Porthos rolls his eyes. He's riding slightly behind Aramis, but he doesn't need to be able to see him to know it's happening. Porthos rolls his eyes with his entire body, and some of the air around it, as well. "I meant about the snow."

"Farm, remember?"

"I think you're trying to make farming seem a lot more exciting than it actually is."

D'Artagnan grins, and turns back around. "Athos? Want to stop for the night?"

"No," Athos says. "It's still early."

"But it's going to—"

"No."

An hour later, they're well past the village, with no sign of another approaching, and the snow is thick and wet and falling fast. They've all retreated further into their cloaks, glad for the wide brims on their hats (even d'Artagnan hadn't been to vain to bring one, in this weather), and Aramis is trying very hard to focus on the warmth of his horse and the sounds of the others around him.

Memories of the actual event are hazy, thank God. It's the aftermath that haunts him, keeps him from sleep long after the physical reminders have faded. By the time he returned, concussed and half-frozen and the only one left, he'd felt certain that somehow his soul was no longer in his body.

It took weeks for that feeling to fade, and it's never gone away entirely.

It's coming back now.

 _Listen,_ he thinks fervently. _Listen to them, you're not alone. Feel the horse, your clothes, the road. You're warm, you're moving, you're not there, you're not there, you're not_ —

"Aramis."

He startles. Porthos is peering at him knowingly through the snow. They've stopped, apparently.

"We're going to have to make camp," Porthos says. "Road'll get icy if it gets much colder, and we can't risk the horses."

"No, of course not," Aramis agrees without thinking. "Have we found a place?"

"Athos is looking, d'Artagnan with him. Thinks there might be caves, or at the very least a nice big rock to cuddle up against."

"Charming." Better than a tree, at least. Better than a tree in a clearing filled with bodies, slowly freezing to the ground.

Anything is.

He drifts again after that, his body going through motions his mind seems to have no control over. He and Porthos dismount and lead their horses off the track, watching for signs of uneven ground beneath the piling snow, then stand pressed against them for warmth as they wait for the others to return.

It hasn't gotten noticeably darker by the time d'Artagnan reappears, sans horse, to lead them into the woods, but the snow has gotten even more insistent and an eerie quiet has settled over everything.

"Athos is setting up," he tells them. "It's a great place – you'll love it."

Porthos snorts, but falls into place behind d'Artagnan, giving Aramis an easier target to follow.

It's not a long walk – doesn't feel long, that is – and not too treacherous. The ground is softer in the forest, so ice is less of a concern than on the hard-packed road, and there are no steep ravines or unstable inclines to navigate. D'Artagnan talks the whole time, filling the silence with… he honestly can't say. Filling the silence with something, and that's enough.

The cave, when they arrive, isn't immediately obvious. Then Athos appears from behind a stand of dense evergreen shrubbery a bit uphill, and Aramis realises that what looks like a seam in the rocky hill before them is actually an opening.

"Nice work," Porthos says approvingly.

"It's narrow," Athos says brusquely, "but it's long. Room for the horses, too." That explains where his and d'Artagnan's are.

"Any luck with a fire?" d'Artagnan asks. He holds out a hand; Aramis passes him his horse's reins. He already has Porthos' horse, and starts leading them up towards the cave. Aramis and Porthos follow.

"Found some wood that should be dry enough," Athos answers, "but I didn't want to light anything until the horses were all in, in case it smokes."

The horses' hooves become audible for the first time in a long while, and then he and Porthos round the shrubs and find themselves at the mouth of the cave. It's dark inside, but not too dark to see the first several yards.

Once they're all in, Athos sets about lighting the pile of sticks and branches set a few steps from the entrance, and Porthos and Aramis back further in to give him room. It takes a minute, but eventually the sparks take, and the fire grows slowly but surely. The light it casts is enough to reach to the back of the cave, where Aramis sees that d'Artagnan unsaddled the horses and loosely cobbled them over a layer of dead leaves and dry winter grass.

"This'll be cozy," Porthos says, and claps his hands together. "Now: dinner?"

'Dinner' is dried meat and slightly less dried bread, kept safe from the snow in oiled cloths in their packs, but it's enough to keep them from going hungry. As the cave warmed with fire and body heat, they'd taken off their damp outer layers and spread them on the ground to dry. Porthos had made a comment about d'Artagnan not setting up a clothesline, d'Artagnan had punched him, Porthos had gotten him in a headlock, and Athos had simply sighed and shifted closer to Aramis. It was all very normal, so why does he still feel that his soul isn't in his body?

It's sleeping he dreads the most, for some reason, but in the end it's all right. Porthos has a deck of cards with him, of course, and they play for increasingly tiny bits of twigs. Athos feeds the fire reliably, and the air gets thick and warm. By the time they decide to call it a night, their cloaks have dried enough to sleep on, and the wool blankets they'd packed hadn't gotten wet at all. Two cloaks on the ground under a pair, two blankets on top of a pair, and the two pairs snugged close together, as near to the horses as they dare. They won't bother with watches; they all need each other's warmth, and the horses will alert them to anything worrisome.

He and Athos pair up, as has become their habit, allowing Porthos' bulk to compensate for d'Artagnan's lack of it. Athos insists on being closest to the opening, and thus the cold (and any danger that may present itself), but between Athos and d'Artagnan Aramis is perfectly warm. He slings an arm over Athos' side, pulling him close. Athos lets him, even going so far as to rest a hand over Aramis' where it rests against his chest.

"You all right?" Athos asks lowly.

"The worst part was being alone," Aramis breathes. Athos just nods. "Surrounded by death, and I couldn't _do_ anything, couldn't move, didn't know if the soldiers were coming back or not, had no idea if anyone would find me before I died. This—" he stops, takes a breath. "This isn't the same, I know that. I _know_ that, but it still reminds me."

"You're not alone here," Athos says.

As if in agreement, d'Artagnan puts a hand on his shoulder and shifts up closer behind him. Porthos grunts, but must follow, since d'Artagnan sighs happily.

They won't speak of it later – this, too is habit – but when he wakes up in the morning and sees that the ground is blanketed by a solid layer of white, he is calm.

He hadn't had a single dream.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _this is waaaay longer than usual, so please don't expect all of the others to be this long. I mean, some of them might be, but don't count on it. I am still ostensibly aiming for ~500 words per chapter._


	10. bruises

_sorry I'm a little behind, but yesterday was packed and I needed part of today to decompress. chapter 11 will hopefully be up this evening!_

* * *

. . .

* * *

"Dark cloth hides a multitude of sins," his mother used to say. When they were poor and hungry, scraping by on the streets of Paris, clothing in muted grays and browns hid mud and dirt and tears and stains and let them look slightly less disreputable than they otherwise might have.

Dark skin hides all sins except the worst.

As a child, on the streets and in the Court, he learns to be wary of hands and feet and spitting words. He isn't alone in his darkness, but he is outnumbered. It isn't until meeting Charon that he learns how to fight back; not just with anger, but with pride. He learns to use his size and colour to intimidate, and he learns not to be ashamed. Flea teaches Porthos how to survive, but Charon teaches him how to i _live_ ,/i finishing the lessons that his mother had only had the chance to start.

With Charon, Porthos learns what it means to be a Black man in a city owned by white men. He learns to fill a room instead of hide in it, how to stand tall in the face of others' imagined superiority and lift his chin in the face of their insults, how to disarm with a smile and defuse with a laugh, when to challenge a slight and when to walk away, and – above all – to never grow complacent.

When Treville finds him, he is proud and defiant but still yearning for acceptance. By the time he leaves the Court, that's the biggest difference between him and Charon: Charon needs no one's good opinion but his own, while Porthos still wants the world to see him and welcome him for who he is. He works hard, earns his commission, and learns that no noble-born white man is too good to be beaten by a fatherless Black man.

When Aramis joins, it's natural that they should gravitate towards one another – both common, both outsiders, but they both carry their differences with pride.

When Athos arrives shortly after, Porthos doesn't have to beat him. He could in a heartbeat, if he didn't mind bending the rules (which he doesn't), but Athos doesn't seem to need it. He never gives the slightest indication that he thinks himself above any other man, and while he almost certainly has more in common with the rest of the garrison than he does with the two of them, he attaches himself to a Black street rat and a half-Spanish bastard.

If anyone in the garrison finds it odd, they know by now to keep it to themselves.

If anyone else finds it odd, they learn quite quickly.

When d'Artagnan bursts into the courtyard, sword drawn and completely committed to his vengeance, Porthos looks at his colouring and finds himself wondering if he maybe might be half… But no, he's just Gascon. It was a foolish assumption, perhaps, but can he be blamed for it?

They all have their pasts, and God knows they all have their flaws, but they're all just as human as one another.

"Sorry," Aramis says, cutting into his musings. "Did that hurt?"

Porthos hadn't noticed that he'd winced, but it's hard to ignore the sharp throbbing of his cheekbone now that he's paying attention again.

"Little bit," he admits.

"Sorry," Aramis apologises again, and dabs on the salve more gently. "It must be deeper than it looks. Bruises don't always show what's going on beneath the surface, yours least of all."

"Maybe not, but I can still feel them just fine."

"I know," Aramis says softly, and rests his other hand against Porthos' undamaged cheek. "I know."

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _just as a note, I'm American, so my interpretation of racial politics has that very specific slant to it. I know that race relations in 17th century France were not the same as they are in the modern-day U.S., but I'm writing from a modern American perspective of what is considered acceptable and respectful (such as capitalizing "Black" and not capitalizing "white") because that's what I know._


	11. hypothermia

_snowmelt is not to be underestimated_

* * *

. . .

* * *

Between one step and the next, the seemingly solid bridge gives way. When he looks back on it, he will remember how long it seemed to take to fall, how slowly and inevitably he seemed to approach the water, and how unbothered he was by it. There was no panic, no fear, no furious scrabble to grab onto something, _anything_ – just a resigned sigh.

 _Good thing we didn't try to bring the horses across,_ he thinks, and then he hits the water.

It's shallow enough that his head doesn't go under, but the current is strong and the water is cold, the river swollen with rain and snowmelt. Between the force and the shock, he's swept away before it occurs to him to fight it.

"Athos!" Porthos and Aramis yell together at the same time that d'Artagnan lets out a startled and heartfelt, " _Fuck!"_

He watches the three of them clamber down the embankment from the bridge and start running along the shore, stumbling through mud and over rocks. Oddly, he still doesn't really seem to care – he should be at least _concerned_ that he's being carried ever further away from them or that the river widens and deepens considerably not far downstream, but he's strangely philosophical about it.

That might just be the cold setting in, though.

"Cut towards the shore!" Porthos bellows, and oh, yes, swimming. He strikes out against the current, trying to pull himself forwards without letting his head go under, but his cloak is heavy around his arms and his boots are so full of water that his kicks are clumsy and half-completed.

"Downstream!" d'Artagnan yells, frantically motioning a circle as he runs. "Don't fight against the current, just angle yourself across it!"

"We'll be right behind you!" Aramis adds. "Just get to the shore and we'll be there!"

He doesn't want to let them out of his sight, but he knows it makes sense. He can exhaust himself completely trying to swim upstream and never get any closer; cutting across the current at an angle will get him to land eventually, even if it's miles from here. He turns reluctantly, and maybe it's the initial shock wearing off or maybe it's the sight of all that cold, grey water stretching out before him, but suddenly he is _afraid._ Men die like this, and he doesn't want to be one of them. He pauses for a moment, treading water, to pry his feet from his boots and struggle out of his cloak, and it might cost them another several yards but they're dragging him down and he has to get free.

The cloak is harder, his hands too cold to work the buckles easily, but eventually it falls away and he feels like he's _flying_ through the water the moment it's gone. It's easier to swim without the weight and the resistance, and though he feels himself starting to flag he sets his sights on the shoreline and grimly pushes himself towards it, inching closer with each stroke, ignoring the numbness in his hands and feet, ignoring the burn in his throat and the tightness in his chest, ignoring the widening of the river and the roughness of the current, ignoring everything but pulling himself closer to land.

An uncountable number of strokes later his feet brush the riverbed, and in a matter of moments he's staggering up and finishing the journey on trembling, unwieldy legs.

There's still a bank to climb up, to get back onto solid ground, but while his arms will lift to grasp at the tree roots conveniently placed there, they refuse to pull him up. The water's still tugging at him, but it's below his knees here and even if he falls it won't be strong enough to carry him away again. He drops to his knees, noticing only absently the rocks that they land on, and waits for his friends to find him.

It's only a couple of minutes – the current had been strong, and the shoreline difficult terrain – but it feels much longer than that before hands are grasping his wrists and forearms ("Come on, come on, come on, get him up") and hauling him up. Then there are hands on his back ("That's it, Athos, come on, we've got you now") on his shoulders, on his waist, ("You're all right, you're all right, you're all right"), and he's falling to his knees again but this time in dirt.

"That's it, just breathe, you're safe now—"

"—help me with his clothes?"

"We'll get you a new cloak, don't you worry—"

"—frankly time to replace those boots, anyway—"

"—sit up a bit, let me get at this jacket—"

"—shirt next, there we go—"

Carefully, methodically, they strip him down, keeping up such a smooth hum of sound the entire time that he can't match words to voices. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but is still aware enough to know that he shouldn't, so settles for closing his eyes and letting the others do the worrying. By the time he's been dried off and wrapped in three cloaks, the only thing keeping him from nodding off are the hard shudders tearing through him, cold and fatigue combined and compounded.

Porthos is sitting behind him, holding him tightly and letting him shake to pieces in his arms while Aramis pats the blood from his feet and examines them.

"Whose shirt is that?" Athos asks, looking down at the bundle of formerly white fabric, only now realising what it is.

"Just part of a shirt," Aramis says easily. "I'd been meaning to trim it down, anyway. How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Cold."

"Perfectly understandable. These don't look too bad," he pronounces, and tears the strip of cloth in half to start winding carefully around his feet. "I'll want to wash them later, but nothing's deep. Walking will probably be a bit uncomfortable, though."

"D'Artagnan went back to get the horses," Porthos adds, and Athos looks up sharply. He hadn't noticed him leaving, but he is indeed gone. "When he gets back with them, we'll get you dressed and head to the nearest town we can find."

"We still have to—"

"—get a fire going," Aramis interrupts, blithely ignoring Athos' glare. "Excellent point, thank you. Porthos, do you think any of this wood will be dry enough, or shall I go and scout?"

"Doesn't matter if it's dry enough," Porthos points out, "since we left our weapons behind with the horses." The flints were stored in the belts with the powder and the musketballs. Athos still has his, fortunately, but it's currently draped over a branch with his doublet, everything too wet to be of any use.

Aramis snaps his fingers. "Yes, we did. Well, I'm sure that young d'Artagnan has found them all and is on his way back as we speak. In the meantime, we had best do this the traditional way."

"Agreed."

When d'Artagnan returns, riding his own horse and leading the other three by a complicated system of lead ropes and tack, Aramis' and Porthos' weapons belts fixed securely to their saddles, Athos can't bring himself to mind that he finds the three of them sandwiched together in a tangle of arms and legs and two bright, unrepentant grins.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _if you wish, come to my tumblr (also takingoffmyshoes) and I will tell you the tale of the Cursèd Crew Practice that inspired this story._

 _P.P.S. ff and I have been having some technical issues lately, mostly in the form of my updated stuff not moving up on the timeline. this means that if you're just checking the musketeers homepage to see if it's updated, it might not always look like it has. so if you're enjoying the story and want to stay caught up with it, i do recommend following it, since it seems that ff will still send out the update emails even when the other stuff is funky. i know this sounds like a shameless plug for followers, but i swear this is just a PSA in case you're interested. Thanks!_


	12. electrocution

_the air crackles, and something shifts_

* * *

. . .

* * *

It's a hot, hazy day at the height of summer, and Paris has never smelled worse.

Fortunately, he's not in Paris.

Well, technically he is, but the palace is so far removed from the crowded, stinking squalor of the city proper that it may as well be miles away. He misses it sometimes – often, actually – but not today.

"Is it entirely appropriate for a minister of France to be sitting on the ground, cooling his bare feet in a royal pool?"

" _First_ minister, actually," he corrects, barely holding back the grin that threatens to break loose, and leans back on his hands, splashing his feet in and out of the cool water. "And yes, in this weather, it is entirely appropriate."

Behind him, Athos tuts in mock disapproval. "Whoever recommended you to the position must be feeling quite the fool."

Aramis lets out the grin. "Are you?"

Athos lowers himself to the ground next to him and bumps his shoulder affectionately. "No."

"I thought not. So what brings you here, o… What even _are_ you these days?"

"On leave, still," Athos says dryly. "I want d'Artagnan to squirm a little longer, and then I'll go back and help him."

"He's doing fine."

"I know." The words are simple, but there's such faith behind them. Such trust. "He's worried about Porthos," Athos adds, like an afterthought, and Aramis sighs.

"We all are. The Queen really is trying, though, and negotiations are going well. The fighting should have stopped by now, and if all goes well he'll be back in a couple of months no worse for the wear."

"He's worried about you, too."

Aramis snorts. "I'm the last person he should be worrying about." Of all of them, his life is undoubtedly the safest, not to mention the most comfortable. He's never been in less danger in his life.

It shouldn't chafe. It _doesn't._

He opens his mouth to say this, to remind Athos and d'Artagnan and whoever else seems to have forgotten that this is his choice, this is what he wants, but he finds he can't. "You know I made a vow," he says instead.

"To devote yourself to God in penance for your monumentally terrible decision to sleep with the Queen, yes, I remember."

That actually forces a chuckle from him. Trust Athos to pare it down to the brutal essentials.

"Yes, that one. Well, as you know, it was...interrupted. And I was glad of it, to tell you the truth. I was relieved to be reunited with you all, and to once again be living the life I knew and loved best. But I did make a vow, and I still haven't fulfilled it."

"To devote yourself to God," Athos says again flatly, and Aramis wants to shake him. He sighs, instead, and keeps his eyes carefully on the reflection of the cloudy sky in the water of the pool.

"To learn," he corrects. "To take responsibility for what I'd done, and to become someone who won't make those mistakes again."

The reflection seems to glow, suddenly, and he feels Athos' head snap skywards in sync with his own, just in time to catch the fading flash in the clouds.

"Silent lightning," Athos says after a moment, still looking up. "I haven't seen it in years."

"I used to think it was God sending a sign, to be seen only by those who were looking for it."

"There's nothing to say that it isn't."

They watch the sky in silence for some time, and are rewarded with another flicker.

"Stay here, then," Athos says to the sky. "Learn your lesson. Fulfill your vow. Become someone you can face. But don't isolate yourself needlessly. We will always come for you, and you can always come back to us. We will always be your brothers, no matter what monumentally terrible decisions you make."

And it's on the tip of his tongue to laugh, to lie, to insist that he already knows this, but the sky lights up once more, and he can't. "One day, hopefully, I will believe that."

A hand lands on his shoulder, familiar and comforting. "One day you will, but it will be true even when you don't."


	13. stay

_the Death Cold strikes the Garrison_

 _(university au! because why not?)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

"There you are!" Aramis exclaims as d'Artagnan shuffles into the kitchen at the slovenly hour of nine thirty. Normally he's a disgustingly enthusiastic morning person, and is often the first one of them to get up, whether or not he has early classes. "I was starting to think I'd have to…" he trails off as he looks up from his phone and actually sees him. "Well, I was _going_ to say I might have to make my own breakfast, but on second thought that's probably the better option, anyway. Are you feeling okay?"

D'Artagnan's hoarse, "No," doesn't come as any surprise: his skin is pale against his dark grey sweatshirt, his eyes and nose are red, his voice sounds terrible, and even his _hair_ looks sick, gathered low in a loose, messy knot.

"You've caught the Death Cold," Aramis pronounces grimly. It's been doing the rounds of campus for a couple of weeks now, striking indiscriminately and without mercy. He had just been starting to think that they would be spared, but like the final plague of Egypt, it had entered into their home and struck down their...well, their last-born, rather than their firstborn, but still. Aramis crosses himself, then d'Artagnan. "Requiescat in pace."

"I have not," d'Artagnan protests, a beat too late, but there's no bite to it. Also, he's going for the kettle rather than the coffee pot. Clearly he's already got one foot in the grave.

Heavy footsteps sound on the stairs, and soon Porthos joins them in the kitchen. "Who's died?" he asks casually, slinging his school bag onto an open chair.

"D'Artagnan has the Death Cold," Aramis tells him, and crosses him, too. "May God have mercy on his soul. And ours, also, since we're all going to get it now."

"Fuck," Porthos says, with feeling. He looks at d'Artagnan, who's leaning heavily on the counter and staring blankly as he waits for the kettle to boil. He hasn't turned on the burner. Porthos sighs, and goes to do it for him. "C'mon, go sit down. I'll make your tea. What kind d'you want?"

"Oolong," d'Artagnan rasps, and coughs into the crook of his elbow.

"Yeah, you've got the Death Cold," Porthos agrees. He gently steers d'Artagnan to the table, where he drops down into the chair next to Aramis and buries his head in his arms with a wet sniffle.

Aramis resists for about five seconds before giving in and patting d'Artagnan's head. "Poor Tan," he says. D'Artagnan hates the nickname, but he's the one who made them all watch Queer Eye, so it's his own fault he's stuck with it. "I guess you have no choice but to stay home on this cold, wet, horrible day, drinking tea and watching shitty television while the rest of us slog our way to campus and suffer through our classes."

"'M going to class," d'Artagnan mumbles. Aramis and Porthos make eye contact and share a flat look.

"No you're not," Aramis tells him. "It's pouring. Your Death Cold will upgrade to the literal plague."

D'Artagnan lifts his head and pins him with a bleary, bloodshot glare. "First of all, plague is treatable with penicillin, and I know you know that because you're the one who told me. Second of all, umbrellas exist. Third of all, I have a test today." He drops his head again.

Shit. "Which class?"

"Agronomy."

"I have no idea what that is, but I'm emailing your professor right now." Aramis pulls up the university student health page on his phone and navigates to the employee messaging system. "Email address?"

D'Artagnan gives it, and Aramis types up a quick message, checks the form's autofill boxes for _cough_ and _fever_ , then adds _flu-like symptoms_ just for good measure and sends it. "There – now you have a note from student health, and you're officially excused."

"I love you forever," d'Artagnan says into the table, and Aramis pats his head again.

Porthos comes over to the table with a bowl of cereal and d'Artagnan's tea, which he sets down carefully. "Did you want honey?" he asks.

"No, that's fine." D'Artagnan hauls himself more or less upright to take a careful sip. "I love you forever also," he says to Porthos.

Porthos chuckles. "Athos is gonna be sorry he missed out."

"Athos is going to be sorry he missed out on what?" Athos asks, appearing in the kitchen, and Aramis almost jumps. The man is goddamn _silent_ on the stairs – he and Porthos should equalise into one normal-sounding person.

"Ah, perfect timing," Aramis says, and claps his hands together to gesture to each of them in turn. "Tan has the Death Cold, I used my student health credentials to save him from a test, Porthos used his stove-lighting abilities to make him tea, and now he loves us both forever. He hasn't said anything about you, though, so…"

Athos rolls his eyes. Unlike Aramis and Porthos, he's still in his pajamas, but he doesn't look quite as much a mess as d'Artagnan does, which is saying something. Athos is usually a disaster until about noon.

"Sorry you're sick," he says, and squeezes d'Artagnan's shoulder as he passes by. "Are you staying home today, then?"

D'Artagnan nods, pauses a moment, and sneezes explosively into his elbow. Aramis scootches his chair away. Porthos kicks him under the table.

"Good call," Athos says. "And bless you. Aramis, I'm making eggs. Will you want any?"

"Yes, please." They won't be as good as d'Artagnan's, but they probably won't consign him to a slow death by upper respiratory distress. Besides, if he wants to survive the pestilence that has befallen their home, he really needs to keep up his strength. "You don't have class today, do you?"

"Nope, and I was already planning on spending the day here. Unless you want space," he adds, looking up at d'Artagnan, who blinks back at him drowsily.

"Hmm? Oh, no, you can stay. That's fine."

"Okay, that's what we'll do, then. I can also pick up some of that soup from that one place, if you like."

"Oh, god, yes," d'Artagnan groans, and seems to melt in his seat until the side of his face is resting on the table. "Athos, you are the literal light of my life. The wind beneath my wings. I love you forever and ever."

"Amen," finishes Aramis.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _I might continue this in a later chapter if you're not all too sick of d'Artagnan getting the whump, so lemme know what you think about that_


	14. torture

_enduring is an art_

 _(warnings for vague discussion of torture, and of dissociation as a coping mechanism)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

Someone is screaming again. Aramis spares them a prayer, a hope that their spirit will not break, and that they will soon know peace again, whether it is in this world or the next.

It'll be his turn again soon enough.

He settles as comfortably as he can on the stone floor of his cell and tries to rest. There's little point doing anything else: they'd all known that capture was a risk and had planned accordingly, so his job is to endure until the others come for him.

Enduring torture requires a very specific set of abilities, which Aramis has had all too many opportunities to practice and refine, because there are many kinds of torture. War is torture. Long rides with no rests are torture. Watching the woman he loves from a distance is torture. Supporting a drunk Porthos home is torture. Sleeping outside in the rain is torture. Being kept in a dank-smelling cell and periodically beaten is just one variety of torture among many, and although it is particularly unpleasant, it isn't particularly different.

So he rests his body and his mind as often as he can, finding the least uncomfortable position to sit or lie in and reciting the prayers of his absent rosary.

He accepts his situation, acknowledging his suffering but refusing to examine it, and lets go of the desire for it to be otherwise. It will change, eventually, and time spent in anger passes no more quickly than time spent at peace.

And when they come for him, drag him from his cell and march him barefooted through the halls to a special room, chain his hands above his head to a hook in the ceiling and make him face the array of whips and cudgels laid out to torment him for information he will not give, he breathes in and out and reminds himself that all pain is temporary, and that cooperation will spare him nothing.

His interrogator selects a long, thin rod to begin with, and Aramis closes his eyes and starts to sing to himself.

* * *

He thinks it's been a few days since he was taken, but he isn't sure. However long it's been, he will be freed eventually, and whatever damage is done in the meantime will heal. All things are temporary; it may feel as though time has slowed to a crawl, and as though his pain will be eternal, but time is passing just as it always has and the pain will come to an end.

He breathes, in and out. As long as he is breathing, time is passing. As long as time is passing, this will end.

* * *

By the time Athos appears on the other side of the bars of his cell, Aramis has sunk deep within himself. He is aware of his injuries, of the bruising around his wrists and the deep ache in his shoulders as well as the rest of them, but they do not own him.

"Athos," he says. He hasn't spoken in days. He's only yelled.

"Aramis," Athos says, eyes hard and glinting. He holds up a ring of keys. "Ready to go?"

Aramis gets to his feet. Relief is nipping at his heels, threatening to shake apart the safety of his shell, but he can't afford to let it. Not yet.

Athos opens the door, and comes inside to take the manacles from Aramis' wrists. He wants to rub the skin as they come loose, to examine the bruises and feel how deep they go, but Athos catches his hands and holds them apart.

"Don't look," he says quietly. "Not yet."

Aramis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

He opens his eyes. "I'm ready."

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _to be continued in the next chapter_


	15. manhandling

_he's never gone so deep that he can't come back to them_

 _(follows chapter 14)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

The longer Athos is in there, the higher d'Artagnan's tension ratchets up, until the lad is practically humming with it. When he starts bouncing up and down on toes, Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder and holds him down. D'Artagnan doesn't apologise, and he doesn't relax, but he does stand still.

"Have a little faith," Porthos breathes in his ear. It does feel like they've been waiting an ungodly long time, but he knows that's just the stress. Worry bends time, moves it strangely, but he's learned to work around that.

The two of them are tucked up in an alcove just inside a side entrance to the sprawling manor. It has something of a reputation for vanishing people; rumour is that the owner uses it as a prison for the villages whose land he controls. It's what they had been looking into, so it stands to reason it's where Aramis is now.

The plan had been for a quiet rescue, to get Aramis without bringing down the whole of the house on them, but the longer they wait the less likely that seems.

Finally, Athos appears around a corner with Aramis slumped against him. Porthos hurries out to take Aramis' other side, leaving d'Artagnan to cover them as they make their way out into the night.

"Any problems?" Porthos asks quietly. Beyond the obvious, he means – Aramis still hasn't said a word, and Porthos knows why. He's hurting, and damaged, and can't afford to acknowledge it until they're out of danger.

"None," Athos answers. "For a change."

"Can't say we haven't earned a break," he agrees, and they move on in silence.

The moment they round a bend in the road and their horses come into view, Aramis lets out a sharp hiss and stumbles, legs going weak beneath him.

"Almost there," Porthos murmurs. "Just a few more steps, and then you can sit down and let the horse do the work. Our inn's not far from here, so just hold on a little longer." Aramis still says nothing, but he keeps his feet under him until Porthos helps him up into the saddle, then climbs up behind him.

Athos and d'Artagnan mount up as well, but d'Artagnan hangs back as the others urge their horses to a smooth canter. He'll keep and eye on the house and ensure that, if Aramis' absence is noticed, they'll have as much of a head start as possible.

Aramis stays quiet through the ride, but he's starting to come back to them. He's getting stiffer, wincing now and then, not able to keep his breathing entirely even.

"Almost there," Porthos keeps telling him. "Just a little longer, almost there."

When they arrive at the inn, Aramis is himself enough to try to refuse help, but not enough to be able to resist it.

He needs both of them to get him up the stairs to their room, but he shakes them off at the door to stagger across the room on his own and collapse face-first onto one of the beds.

Athos and Porthos share a sigh, then go over to help him.

By the time d'Artagnan gets back, Aramis has been wrestled out of his shirt, and strips of linen have been laid along his back, covering the salve rubbed into the bruises, welts, and cuts there, and Athos is working his way up and down Aramis' arms, kneading the muscle and rubbing out the aches.

Aramis is nearly asleep, which is exactly what he needs. He'll be in a lot of pain when we wakes up, but he'll also be back in his head.

Of all of them, he's the best at retreating into himself. Sometimes he goes a bit too far, but he's never gone so deep that he can't come back to them.


	16. bedridden

_it's hard to tell where the line is_

 _(okay, so I have been excited about this one ALL MONTH because one of my very favorite musketeers writers – fandomlver, over on ao3 – has given me permission to write a small oneshot set in their extraordinary au "the fight that will give you the right (to be free)." If you're familiar with the au, please take a moment to go and give it some more love – additional comments, anonymous kudos, a bookmark, a rec, anything – because it deserves more attention than it's gotten. If you're not familiar with this au (especially if you're a d'Artagnan fan), PLEASE give it a read. I promise it will destroy you in the best possible way._

 _This might not make much sense if you haven't read the series, but the the premise of the au is that during the episode "An Ordinary Man," Louis and d'Artagnan end up on a Spanish galley, after all. Ensuring the safe return of the king requires certain sacrifices from d'Artagnan, but the experience forms the basis of a strong and lasting friendship between him and the king, and by extent the entire royal family.)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

"Your fever seems a little better today," Constance says, and replaces the hand on his forehead with a cool, damp cloth.

D'Artagnan hums. _He_ doesn't feel any better, but he keeps that to himself.

Whatever this illness is, it had struck a week ago and has kept him in bed for the last four days, too weak to stand and too miserable to want to try.

"Is anyone else sick?" He asks this every day, and every day Constance humours him.

"No," she says. "Just you."

"The Dauphin?" He spends so much of his time around him, and is terrified that whatever this is, it will take the Dauphin, too.

"He's fine," Constance reassures him, moving the cloth to press against his cheek. He leans into it with a groan. "He misses you, but he's fine."

"You?"

"I feel perfectly healthy," she says firmly. "And if anyone else were going to get sick, don't you think they would have by now?"

"I don't know. Maybe." It's hard to think – it's been hard to think all week. One moment he's stifling, and the next he's shivering so hard it hurts, and through it all his thoughts are vague and his dreams nonsensical. On some level, he knows it's the fever, but he feels like he's losing his mind.

"You're going to be fine," Constance says, impossibly gently, "but you need to rest. Try not to worry about anyone else for a while, all right?"

* * *

He drifts a long time, slipping in and out of sleep, though it's hard to tell where the line is. Athos stops by at some point, as do Aramis and Porthos, but either they don't try to talk to him or he isn't awake when they do. He knows they're there, feels hands against his face and neck and hears the concerned murmurs in the room, but even that is hazy and formless.

He's so tired, and so sore, and he just wants it to be over.

* * *

When he finally wakes, clear-headed if still exhausted, it's to the sight of Louis sitting by his bed, the Dauphin on his lap and a small book in his hands. He's reading in Spanish.

"Henri," d'Artagnan croaks. Louis' head shoots up, and his delighted expression is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

"Charles!" he exclaims.

"Charl!" echoes the Dauphin happily, and tries to launch himself from his father's lap onto the bed. He almost succeeds, stopped at the last moment by Louis' solid arm around his waist.

"You shouldn't be…" d'Artagnan starts, and has to cough to clear his throat. "It isn't safe."

"Aramis told me your fever had broken," Louis says. "No one else has gotten sick, and with you recovering, he thought it perfectly safe. I've been worried," he adds, expression dimming somewhat. "We all have."

"How long has it been?"

"Almost two weeks."

"And no one else has gotten sick?"

"No one else," Louis confirms.

D'Artagnan hesitates, then sighs and pats the bed. "Let him up, then." Louis releases the Dauphin, who scrambles over onto the bedclothes with a gleeful shriek.

"Charl! Charl! Charl!" he chants, crawling up onto his chest.

"Careful," Louis warns. "Charles has been sick, remember? You must be gentle."

"He's fine," d'Artagnan says. The weight on his aching chest makes it slightly harder to breathe, but he's more worried about the sweat he can feel drying on his skin and still dampening his hair. "I'm just a little...gross."

Louis grins. D'Artagnan remembers a time when the king was closed-off and cold, callous and more than a little shallow. He's a new man, now. More grounded. More human. And he's fast becoming a friend _._

"We'll get you both cleaned up later," he says. "But first, you need some food."

"I'm not…" He trails off, realising that his automatic refusal is actually a lie. "I could eat," he agrees cautiously, and lets Louis help shoo the Dauphin off his chest so he can sit up. He needs help with that, too, and when Louis' hand moves to his back to support him, the damp cotton of his shirt does little to hide the rigid welts left behind by Domingo's cat. Louis says nothing, and d'Artagnan doesn't let himself look at his face.

Maybe one day they will speak of it, but not today.

The Dauphin tucks up against his side once he's sitting up against several pillows, and d'Artagnan wraps an arm around him and listens with half an ear as he babbles away in a barely coherent mixture of Spanish and French.

"I'll send for something," Louis says, then takes d'Artagnan's free hand and grips it tightly. "Welcome back, Charles," he adds softly in Spanish. "I don't think I could have borne to lose you a second time."

And if d'Artagnan's eyes are wet when he pulls away, Louis' aren't entirely dry either.

"No sad," murmurs the Dauphin, pressing a tiny hand against his chest, almost perfectly over his heart.

D'Artagnan pulls him close. "No sad."


	17. drugged

_it's not a_ threshold _, it's a_ foyer

 _(another modern au - trans d'Artagnan gets top surgery! because reasons! this story takes place in a hospital and includes references to medical procedures and gender dysphoria, but nothing graphic or traumatic is discussed)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

It's a couple more hours of waiting than they'd expected – apparently there had been a slight dosage miscalculation for one of the anaesthetics, and while there were no dangerous complications, it's taking d'Artagnan a lot longer to wake up than it normally would have.

By the time Athos is allowed to go back and see him, he's been at the hospital for almost five hours, and only Aramis' and Porthos' constant texting has kept him sane.

The OR recovery room is fairly empty, only a few of the cubicles curtained off, but for whatever reason d'Artagnan's is almost at the end. It's close to the restroom, at least; if Athos has cause to regret the four cups of coffee he'd drunk while waiting, he won't have to go far to take care of it.

The nurse pulls back the curtain and ushers him in, and he gets his first look at d'Artagnan. He's pale, but completely relaxed and fast asleep. He looks young, yes, as he always has – even after a couple of years on T, his beard is stubbornly refusing to grow in – but he also looks utterly at peace. He knows it's the anaesthetics, but he can't remember the last time he'd seen d'Artagnan looking so free from worry. If d'Artagnan's sleep is as restful as it looks, Athos almost wants it to last.

"He was pretty agitated earlier," the nurse says, gesturing Athos to the chair while she taps the computer to life and starts checking the monitors above d'Artagnan's bed. "He's calmed down, but if he tosses and turns a little, it won't hurt him. Anything bigger, like trying to get out of bed, should be called in." She points to the red button on the wall between his chair and the bed.

"Anything else I should be worried about?" Athos asks.

"Not for a few more hours, probably. His blood pressure's still quite low, so if he wakes and wants to get up, you should probably have a nurse come in and help you with him."

Athos nods. "And the surgery?"

The nurse smiles. She looks tired, but not worried, and not nervous. "It went great," she says. "The surgeon will come in to talk to you both when he's awake, but everything looks good. The anesthesiologists were just being cautious, and it's taking him a little longer to metabolise the neurontin than it normally does, but he's not in any danger from it. He'll probably be drowsy for several hours after he wakes up, until he processes the rest of it out, but if there were going to be complications from it they would have presented themselves by now."

Athos thanks her, and she finishes her notes in silence before nodding to him and leaving him alone with d'Artagnan.

The first hour or so is surprisingly relaxing. He puts on one of d'Artagnan's preferred Spotify playlists and lets it play quietly out of his phone as he updates Aramis and Porthos, checks his email, then pulls out the book he'd brought with him and continues reading.

"Athos." It's soft and a little slurred, but it could only be one person. He looks up to see d'Artagnan's eyes barely open, but he's clearly awake enough to see Athos and recognise him. Athos puts his book aside to reach out and cover d'Artagnan's hand – the one without the IV and the pulse ox monitor – where it rests on top of the blankets, over his stomach.

"Hey," he says quietly. "How are you feeling?"

D'Artagnan's eyes slide languidly closed only to half open again a moment later. "I've redecorated my pain foyer," he says, and then falls asleep again on a sigh.

Athos stares for a moment. If d'Artagnan had remained awake, he would have had to come up with a response; he hadn't, but Athos' mouth is still slightly open, frozen in confusion. He closes it with a click, and slowly sits back in his chair to text Aramis and Porthos.

 _do either of you know anything about d'Artagnan's so-called pain foyer?_

A moment later, Aramis' replies start popping up in their group chat.

 _HOLY SHIT_

 _I'd forgotten about that_

 _it was a throwaway line from something about someone having a pain foyer rather than a pain threshold_

 _Porthos is the one who told d'Artagnan though_

Porthos just sends the sunglasses emoji, followed a beat later by _how's he doing?_

Athos sighs, debating whether or not it would be a breach of trust to tell the others. But they're all friends, and he knows that Aramis and Porthos would have been here with him if they could, and there's a good chance that d'Artagnan won't remember it anyway, so it's not like he's taking away his chance to tell it first.

 _he woke up to say that he'd redecorated it, then passed out again._ He'd already relayed what the nurse had told him when he'd first come in.

 _glad he's getting some sleep_

That's from Porthos, and Aramis' comes in almost immediately after:

 _pics?_

 _no._ _not until he's awake and he says I can._

A lot of d'Artagnan's image problems had come from his dysphoria, but it's probably going to be some time before he's comfortable being photographed. He hates pictures of himself, no matter how hard they try to help him see himself the way they do. Hopefully, with the surgery done, he'll be able to realise how unfairly handsome he is.

 _that's fair. i just wish i could be there too_

Neither Aramis nor Porthos had been able to get the day off, despite Treville's sympathy. Athos' seniority, along with the fact that d'Artagnan has him listed as next-of-kin, had been enough to spring him for the next two days, but Aramis and Porthos won't be able to join them until Friday without dipping into their sick-leave.

 _I know. we'll see you this evening, though, and hopefully d'Artagnan will be awake enough by then to celebrate._

It's a couple minutes before he gets a reply, this time from Porthos.

 _sorry, treville was scowling at us. we'll let you go but keep us updated, yeah?_

 _you know I will._

He puts his phone face-down on his knee to keep playing the music, and returns to his book.

It's almost another hour before d'Artagnan stirs again, rolling over onto his side a little.

"Were we talking about my pain foyer?" he rasps.

"Yes," Athos says. "You were telling me that you'd redecorated it?"

"Oh, yeah," d'Artagnan murmurs, and launches into a dreamy description of terra cotta tile, a skylight, and an artfully placed potted plant. Athos just lets him talk, nodding at intervals and trying to look more interested than amused. It's very hard, even for him, but d'Artagnan's eyes are mostly closed and it's obvious that he's not entirely awake. When d'Artagnan trails off on a muttered tangent about a decorative curtain, going even more limp against the pillow and letting out a long breath, Athos brushes a bit of hair out of his eyes and lets out the fond smile that's been straining at his lips.

Once it's out, it wants to stay, and when he texts the others he's still having trouble keeping a straight face.

 _woke up again._ _talked about his decorative choices. very enlightening._

Aramis responds quickly.

 _i can't believe we're being robbed of this experience_

 _in all fairness, he IS my partner._

 _like i said: we're being robbed_

 _go do your job._

 _tyrant_

It's quiet after that, at least as quiet as it ever is in a hospital. D'Artagnan's heart rate monitor is still beeping quietly, and there's slightly more bustle in the rest of the recovery room than there was when he'd come in, but it's all just background, as easy to tune out as d'Artagnan's music.

D'Artagnan gradually starts stirring more often, looking more like he does when he's naturally asleep, and a glance at the blood pressure reading over his bed reveals that it's starting to edge up into a more normal range. Once he sees that, he starts checking more often, since it's his only real metric of change.

When he looks up and finds his check interrupted by d'Artagnan's confused, slightly glassy gaze, he's not as surprised as he probably should be. "Were we…" d'Artagnan hedges.

"Talking about your pain foyer? Yes."

"Oh. Okay. I thought so."

"Are you going to stay awake longer than thirty seconds this time?" Athos teases gently.

D'Artagnan squints. "Maybe? How often have I been awake?"

"A few times," Athos tells him, "but not for long. You can go back to sleep if you're still tired."

He gets a hum in response. "Think I'll rest my eyes a bit, if that's okay."

"That's fine, d'Artagnan. That's a really good idea. Sleep as much as you want. I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _this is based pretty heavily on my own experiences with surgery, albeit of a different type, so if you think it unrealistic that someone would wake up from an accidentally-tripled dose of neurontin and start talking about their redecorated pain foyer, think again._

 _sorry I'm a bit behind, but. life, you know._

 _finally, if you like two or more of the following things - trans!d'Artagnan, modern workplace au, and Athos/d'Artagnan - please allow me to most highly recommend the series "The New Normal" by FunkyinFishnet, breathtaken, and sevenswells over on AO3. It features genderfluid d'Artagnan rather than a more binary type of transness, and I love it with my whole heart._


	18. seizure

_it's only_ kind of _a secret_

 _(warnings for descriptions of an epileptic seizure, as well as mentions of past seizures)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

It's the first day in a long while that's not been brutally hot; the change is so welcome that Athos actually finds himself grateful for the chance to accompany the king on this hunting trip. The air is cool and sweet with autumn's approach, and the king is in a rare good humour as they ride through the forest, quick to laugh and quicker to smile. Rochefort is absent. It's as near to perfect as a day can get.

Really, he should have learned by now to never think such thoughts.

They've stopped for a midday meal, giving everyone the chance to rest their horses and themselves. With the rest of the entourage and its many guards finally caught up with the king's immediate party, Athos lets himself relax, and in doing so signals the other musketeers to do the same. He and Aramis are sat on a log together, eating their simple meal in companionable silence while Porthos and d'Artagnan stand at the other side of the clearing, seeing to their horses.

He's not watching, exactly, but even at rest he tends to look for trouble. So he sees d'Artagnan's face take on a peculiar and oh-so-familiar expression, sees Porthos notice and stiffen in response, reaching out to take d'Artagnan's shoulders and pull him away from the horses, and he's up and moving by the time d'Artagnan collapses and starts to shake.

"Athos!" Porthos yells, but Athos is already there and Aramis is close on his heels. The rest of the clearing may have gone silent, or it may just been the ringing in his ears as he throws himself to the ground, sliding those final feet on his knees to take d'Artagnan's twitching, tossing head between his hands. It doesn't particularly matter which.

"Cloak," he snaps, and a moment later he lifts d'Artagnan's head as gently as he can to allow Aramis to slip his bundled cloak beneath it. He doesn't restrain, after that, just rests his hands against d'Artagnan's cheeks and wills this to be over quickly.

"It's a big one," Porthos says tightly, putting to words what they can all clearly see. They're far enough from the horses to be safe, and Porthos is combing the area, snatching up any nearby rocks or branches and tossing them away, but that's all they can do as d'Artagnan continues to jerk and twitch, practically humming with the tension arcing through his muscles.

"Is he breathing?" Aramis asks abruptly.

Athos holds a palm under d'Artagnan's nose to check. There's nothing.

"No."

Aramis crosses himself and starts praying fervently. He'd started the Extreme Unction for him once before, almost a year ago, when d'Artagnan had gone completely rigid and stopped breathing for far too long, but the fit had released him before the prayer was over and he'd shuddered back to life with a muddy cross on his forehead. It hasn't ever been as bad as that again, but this one might be close.

Athos smooths his thumbs over d'Artagnan's temples, still letting him toss and roll his head as he pleases, and wishes not for the first time that he still found any hope in prayer.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends, and d'Artagnan goes limp against the ground and drags in a gasping breath. They wait one second, then two, and when it's clear that he's truly been released they each let out a long breath of their own. Athos leaves his hands where they are, doesn't dare move his eyes, either, and peripherally sees Aramis taking one of d'Artagnan's hands as Porthos stands and starts shouting for people to move back.

He hadn't noticed anyone approaching.

He holds d'Artagnan, stroking his sweaty hair and running the backs of his fingers along his cheeks, listening to his breathing even out and watching for the signs that he's coming back to them. It feels like longer, of course, but it's likely no more than minutes before d'Artagnan's eyelids begin to flutter.

"That's it," Athos murmurs, "come back to us. Come back." It takes more time, more soothing and cajoling, but d'Artagnan's eyes finally find his and focus.

"Athos," he rasps. "Did I…"

"Yes, but it's over. Just rest, now."

D'Artagnan's eyes slide away, towards the rest of the clearing, towards Porthos, still herding people away. Aramis shifts over to block the view, and Athos gives the face between his hands a gentle shake. "Look at me, d'Artagnan," he says. "Eyes on me, that's it. You're all right, now, and that's all that matters. Just keep your eyes on me. Nothing else matters."

"The king," d'Artagnan starts, and swallows hard. "He saw?"

"It doesn't matter," Athos says again, firmly.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Aramis says quietly. "There's nothing to be sorry for. It's not your fault, you know that. It's no one's fault – it's just the way God made you."

"Then God must want me to look a fool," d'Artagnan gets out, though his voice is getting shakier. He'll be exhausted, and should probably spend the rest of the day in bed. They'll have to commandeer one of the carriages to get him back to the garrison, and in the most literal sense: if anyone protests, they'll be met with the wrath of the musketeers. Not even Louis could deter them if he tried.

"Not to us," Athos says, tightening his grip just a little. "Not to anyone who matters."

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _hello again! life has been Happening and it is now November - as such, I'm just gonna start writing and posting the rest of these prompts in whatever order I like, so there._ _to avoid potential confusion, any continuities between chapters will be noted by chapter title rather than by chapter number._

 _my understanding of epilepsy is based on the experiences of a friend who developed it in high school, and on an excellent book I just finished reading for a class. this representation is not perfect, but I've done my best to make it acceptable. please let me know if i can make it better!_


	19. severe illness

there's nothing they can do but make him drink

 _(I'm a public health student currently in an outbreak investigation class, so there was no way we were going to get through this challenge without a cholera story. I don't enjoy nastiness, however, so this is only going to be as graphic as it must be to maintain a modicum of medical accuracy. Still, be prepared for descriptions of deeply unsanitary conditions, a singular mention of vomiting, and as delicate a description of lethal diarrhea as I can wrangle.)_

* * *

. . .

* * *

It's April, and it's flooding, and it's hell.

The fighting in this region has all but come to a standstill as both sides continue to lose men in droves, and Porthos doesn't know how much longer he can handle it.

He's used to a little bit of filth, sure, but not springtime in a flood plain. Not mud up to his calves, sucking at his boods, silt and clay and god knows what else coating every single one of them, not a drop of clear water in sight but what falls from the sky, not the perpetual damp of having nowhere dry to go. The general's gone and fled, picked up his tent and his supplies and his favorite captains and moved to higher ground. Bastard probably found a clean spring, too.

Athos wasn't among the chosen few, but he still drinks wine enough to keep himself safe, and Porthos knows to, as well. The fool Gascon, on the other hand, thought that growing up on a farm would be enough to protect him, and now it's all they can do to pour watered wine down his throat fast enough to keep him alive.

They used to have infirmary tents for the sick and the injured – now they have tents for the well, who are fewer and fewer each day. They can't keep up. There's too much to do and too few men to do it, and the three of them have lived through two years of this war already but this may be what finally kills them. He and Athos are well, still, but they both know they probably won't be for long. They still tie scarves and sashes and scraps of fabric over their mouths and noses when they dig latrines or carry bodies or tend the dying men, and clean them the best they can each night, and mix their water with wine or spirits to try to hold it off, but they know.

All their cots have holes cut in them and holes dug under them, now, and it's only a matter of time before they resort to cutting bedrolls and laying them directly in the mud.

D'Artagnan has a cot, though. Athos made sure of that. One way or another, he'll have it until he doesn't need it anymore.

* * *

Porthos and Athos take turns tending d'Artagnan whenever they can spare a moment. There's not much they can do for him, aside from making him drink, but the thought of leaving him alone is too much to bear, so they'll talk to him and hold his hand and lean in close to hear his raspy responses, if he can muster the words. He usually can't. He's been sick for three days, and he's fading fast. He's pale and shrunken and his skin is dry as paper, and his eyes have sunk so far back in his head that he looks like a corpse.

They make him drink, relentlessly pushing cup after cup of watered wine, and it's gone minutes later in a milky rush. That's why there's holes cut in the cots, and holes dug under them. That's why the sick men are kept naked from the waist down, shirts hiked up high around their chests and decency preserved with nothing more than a thin blanket. They can't control themselves, bodies too ravaged by the illness, and however much water goes in, there's always more coming out.

At least he's not vomiting anymore. It's enough trying to keep up with one end of him.

He's miserable, Porthos knows, and humiliated, and probably hoping to die just as a means of escape, but they won't let him.

The next time it's Porthos' turn to visit, he doesn't bother with pleasantries, just lifts d'Artagnan's head and holds the cup to his cracking lips. "Drink," he says firmly, the word muffled by the scarf tied tight around his face. "Drink, and live."

* * *

They're running out of wine, and cots, and men to dig holes and carry bodies and tend the sick. The war is entirely an afterthought. D'Artagnan has been sick for five days.

* * *

One morning, d'Artagnan opens his eyes, and Porthos sees that they've lost their vacant haze. He still looks terrible, more like a shrivelled old man than their fiery, vibrant youth, but at least he's finally keeping the water they give him. He'll be all right, long as he has time to recover before they have to fight again.

They've lost dozens of men in their company alone, and the count must number in the hundreds – if not the thousands – for the battalion. The Spanish are surely suffering the same, but he can't bring himself to be glad of it.

Only after the outbreak has slowed to a near halt does their general deign to show his face again. At least when he does, it's to order them out of this god-forsaken piece of hell. He sneers when he sees the men, though, at the mud they can't shake free and at the weakness of their recovering comrades, and it's a good thing Porthos has his hands full of d'Artagnan or he probably would have risked a court martial for the satisfaction of bashing in that bald head.

"Come on, Porthos," Athos says, appearing at his side. "There's a time for anger, and this isn't it." He doesn't look much better than d'Artagnan at this point, and Porthos probably looks about the same. It's been a long two weeks.

"I can walk," d'Artagnan protests, but his head's resting comfortably against Porthos' chest, and he doesn't try to lift it.

"Sure you can," Porthos says easily, and holds him all the tighter.

D'Artagnan hums sleepily as Porthos carries him out of the tent and starts across the muddy field to where the others are gathering. "Do I even weigh anything to you?"

"Not anymore. It's like holding a couple of grapes."

"Raisins, more like," Athos puts in quietly, and gets a soft huff of laughter in response.

It's been a long, long two weeks, but they're not beaten yet.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _Cholera is incredibly lethal in the wrong circumstances, but also surprisingly survivable in the right ones. The bacteria secrete a toxin that pulls water out of the cells in your intestinal walls, and can drain your body of fluid in a matter of hours (much faster than most other diarrheal diseases). The bacteria generally don't linger in the body longer than a few days, though, so if you can stay hydrated during that time you have a pretty good chance of recovering. Ideally, you want a saline IV to make sure you're replenishing your salts as well as your water, but people survived cholera long before cellular chemistry was understood, so yeah. Water sterilized with alcohol is better than nothing._

 _I feel like Porthos would have learned this from his time in the Court, where all sorts of diseases must have been common and clean drinking water almost impossible to get. Athos might not know it intellectually, but he's probably been driven to drink by the whole situation, and is probably diluting his wine to make it last._

 _D'Artagnan, on the other hand, may not have been exposed to cholera before (it's carried only by people, not by animals, so living in a remote farming community was probably pretty good protection), but may mistakenly believe that he's not at risk. Growing up around animals and working the land probably gave d'Artagnan a really stellar immune system, but cholera immunity needs to be either inherited or vaccine-delivered, so he was still screwed._

 _Cholera cots are a real thing, and yes, I did throw a b99 quote in there simply because I could._


	20. caregiver

the one thing he cannot force himself through is postictal fatigue

 _hello! I am back, and with even more bullshit! commence unspecified modern au. (established athos/d'artagnan, but entirely domestic.)_

* * *

 **. . .**

* * *

When 6:30 comes and goes with no sign of d'Artagnan, Athos goes to look for him. It's not unusual for him to sleep through the first of his alarms, but sleeping through two is rare, and sleeping through all three is almost unheard of.

The bedroom door is mostly closed, as Athos had left it when he'd gotten up, to block some of the light from the kitchen and let d'Artagnan sleep a little longer, and there's no sign of movement from within. Athos slips inside and crosses the room to turn on the bedside lamp. Even at the lowest setting, the light would normally wake d'Artagnan, but he slumbers on, oblivious, sprawled on his stomach with half of his face pressed into the pillow. His alarm's not going off, so he must have woken up just enough to silence it before being pulled back under.

Athos sits on the edge of the bed and tucks a stray bit of hair out of d'Artagnan's face. He doesn't feel feverish, and though he doesn't particularly love mornings, he's generally not this reluctant to wake. When the gentle touch doesn't rouse him, Athos puts a hand on his shoulder and gives a little shake. D'Artagnan makes an incomprehensible noise, but doesn't react beyond that. A somewhat more insistent shake finally gets his eyes open, and the glassy exhaustion Athos sees there has him reaching for his phone.

"I'm calling you in sick," he says, and d'Artagnan just nods gratefully, eyes falling closed again.

Athos dials Treville's number with one hand — number two on speed dial, to Aramis' eternal outrage — while the other rests on d'Artagnan's head. "How bad?" he asks quietly, while it rings.

"Partial complex, I think," d'Artagnan mutters. "In the cab. Only lasted a few seconds."

"That you can remember," Athos points out, but has to ignore d'Artagnan's irritated moue in favour of answering Treville's greeting. "D'Artagnan's not coming in today."

"Understood," Treville says simply. "And you?"

Athos looks a question at d'Artagnan, who shakes his head beneath Athos' hand. He already looks half asleep again. "I'll be fine. 'M just tired."

"I'll come in, but I might head out early."

"That's fine. See you in a bit, then." The call ends, and Athos takes a moment to be grateful that they have such a reasonable employer.

"You don' have to leave early," d'Artagnan says. Athos smooths his palm over the crown of his head.

"I know, but I might want to anyway. Should we cancel dinner tonight?"

"Mmf. Forgot about that. Probably not, since it's just the four of us."

"Let me know if you change your mind," Athos says, and bends over to press a kiss to his cheek before standing up. "They'll understand."

"I know. I love you."

"I love you, too. Get some more sleep, and I'll see you this afternoon."

He isn't quite sure, but he strongly suspects that d'Artagnan has fallen back asleep by the time he closes the door behind him.

* * *

There's really only one reason that d'Artagnan doesn't come to work. His immune system seems to be impenetrable, his tolerance for sleep deprivation is admirable, and his stubbornness is intractable. The one thing he cannot force himself through is postictal fatigue, and everyone who needs to know that knows. So when Athos comes in alone, the only questions he gets are from Aramis, who will report his answers back to Porthos, and from Constance, who will tell Ana if she asks. Beyond that, the workday is normal, if a little subdued. They catch up on paperwork, and meet with Treville about their schedule for next week, and Athos goes home at three and no one asks any questions.

He's already promised to keep Aramis and Porthos up to date on their dinner plans, but he's strongly leaning towards rescheduling. Coming home to find d'Artagnan passed out on the couch confirms it. He looks so worn, even in sleep, that Athos just covers him with a blanket and leaves him where he is. He texts the other two, and gets a set of near-simultaneous well-wishes for d'Artagnan. He might need another day to rest, but after that he'll be fine, until the next time.

It's the risk they run, though, and they're well aware of it. None of the medications he'd tried had done more good than harm, and in the end d'Artagnan had thrown up his hands and decided that the occasional minor seizure was an acceptable price for his continued functionality. If _(if_ , Athos insists, to the pessimism) they get any worse, then he'll revisit his options, but for now, the worst of the effects is the day or so of exhaustion that follows. And that is manageable, for now, and Athos will do anything and everything to keep it that way.

It's not exactly a hardship, after all, to look after someone he cares about.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _so, remember when, with the "seizure" chapter, I was like "I have no personal experience with epilepsy"? well, I should amend that to "I have no personal experience with epilepsy_ of this type, _" because it has come to my attention that I may, in fact, have epilepsy, but of a different kind. it's not #confirmed (i have a neuro appointment in a couple of weeks to assess it), but it's been taking up some brain space nonetheless, and I wanted to write about it._


	21. I can't walk

you should _never_ , under _any_ circumstances, go _anywhere_ without a maxalt

 _migraine fun - mentions of nausea and dry-heaving, but no actual puking_

* * *

. . .

* * *

So here's the way the world works: if you are prepared for a scenario, it will not happen. If you are _not_ prepared for a scenario, therefore, it _will_ happen. And if that scenario is something you would truly, _desperately_ , to-the-bottom-of-your-soul-and-beyond-the-end-of-time _love_ to avoid, then you are, unfortunately, fucked.

Which is why you should _never_ , under _any_ circumstances, go _anywhere_ without a maxalt.

Charles d'Artagnan is twenty-six years old, an experienced security agent, stubbornly independent, and an _idiot_.

The headache that's been building since the morning has not, in fact, gone away with ibuprofen and water as he'd hoped it would, but had continued to simmer threateningly through hours of standing in the relative cool of air-conditioned buildings and then crescendoed to full force within minutes of returning to the bright sun and oppressive heat of the outside world. He knows he's lagging behind the group, knows he's being horribly remiss in his duties, but his skull feels shattered, his balance is shot, he's effectively blind, and it's getting harder to hold himself upright with every step.

Eventually, between one step and the next, his legs simply fold under him. The hands that seize him around the upper arms to slow his descent should not be a surprise, not after all this time, but they are. He can't really see, after all, and all his energy is currently going towards breathing through the pain and building nausea.

"Easy," Porthos murmurs, guiding him to sit rather than fall, arranging his uncooperative limbs so that he can fit his pounding eyes against his knees, blocking every last bit of light and pushing back against the unrelenting pressure. "You have your meds with you?"

"No," he says, aware of how thin and shaky it sounds, "because I'm _stupid_."

"Hey, now," Porthos says, and rubs his back. "Making a mistake doesn't mean you're stupid. Athos has radioed the hand-off team – they're gonna take over early, and then Athos and Aramis'll come back and we'll get you back to the hotel." His voice is quiet and soothing, but at this point even d'Artagnan's own heartbeat is driving spikes into his temples, and the shakiness is getting worse. This is going to be hell.

He doesn't know how long he sits there – doesn't even know where 'there' _is_ – but he's still aware enough to recognize the sound of a car pulling up on the street next to him. The sound of footsteps on asphalt sends starbursts across the backs of his eyelids, but that quickly fades in comparison to the awfulness of being hauled upright and manhandled into the vehicle. The vents are pouring frigid air and someone - Aramis, probably - slaps a cold compress against the back of his neck and starts unbuttoning his collar, but it's not enough to counteract how _horrible_ he feels and how much he just wants to die.

The drive is a nightmare, and getting up to their hotel room is worse. The only good thing is that there's nothing in his stomach to throw up into the plastic bucket that's found its way into his arms, but that doesn't stop him from trying until his ribs ache with the strain. If he weren't too exhausted for it, he'd probably be sobbing by the time he's set down on a bed. Then there's the sharp crackle of plastic packaging, and something intruding on his right nostril. "Sniff," Aramis says, and he does. The spray hits the back of his throat a second later, burning and foul, but he can already feel the vice around his head easing up.

The curtains rattle and swish along the rod, and the room goes dark. Within a handful of seconds, his wits have come back enough to allow him to struggle out of his jacket and pull off his shoes with trembling hands, and he gets himself lying down without incident. He doesn't have it in him to pull back the duvet, but that's all right. Being horizontal is more important than being warm, and besides, the others will—

Something soft and warm settles over him, and despite the fact that he still feels like he's been hit by a train, he smiles into the pillow.

The others will take care of him.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _this is why i always have at least one maxalt in my wallet, and one imitrex nasal spray in my backpack - because one time i didn't, and it was literally the worst day of my life_


	22. exhaustion

_being a musketeer isn't_ always _a thankless task_ – _just usually_

 _(continued from chapter 7, "kidnapped")_

* * *

. . .

* * *

Only once the Dauphin is out of danger can Aramis give his full attention to the damages they'd taken in his rescue. Aramis himself has a mild head injury that's leaking rather more than it's impairing him, Porthos a badly sprained ankle that has him tight-jawed and grimacing on every other step, and d'Artagnan… D'Artagnan has finally stopped dripping blood from his fingertips, at least, but the crude bandage around his upper arm is darkening steadily.

All told, they make a sorry picture in the throne room, presenting the rescued Dauphin to his fearfully furious father and serenely relieved mother. Among them, only Athos has escaped unscathed, and only then because he'd been forced onto distraction duty by a still-healing slice to his thigh, courtesy of the skirmish that had seen the Dauphin taken in the first place.

The tearful reunion has passed, and they're now well into the shouting stage, which really isn't unfamiliar to them, but which is still difficult to bear as they stand there, exhausted and injured and bleeding, having gone through hell to right a wrong that wasn't their fault in the first place.

Aramis would normally tune out the yelling, paste a contrite and receptive expression onto his face, and mentally recite the communion of saints, but in this case he's too busy trying to keep d'Artagnan in his peripheral vision without being obvious about it. The battle rush is visibly fading from him by the minute, and the odds of him collapsing where he stands are increasing at the same rate.

Perhaps he should speak out and risk the king's wrath – then again, it's all too possible that said wrath would be directed against d'Artagnan, which is the last thing he wants. Perhaps a better option would be—

Athos, beside him, nudges him with his shoulder, and Aramis surfaces just in time to hear the tail end of their dismissal. It's curt and ungrateful, naturally, but he bows with the others and makes sure to catch d'Artagnan's good arm on the way out. "Lean on me," he says, as soon as they're through the doors to the audience chamber, then has to take a step to the side to adjust to the sudden onslaught of weight against him.

Behind them, Porthos gives a startled curse, and Athos jerks around from in front.

"Didn't think you were quite that bad off yet," Porthos mutters, and Aramis is able to straighten up again. With Porthos' help, he gets d'Artagnan's uninjured arm over his shoulders and his own arm around d'Artagnan's waist. Standing like that, the tremors are impossible to ignore.

Athos hovers, concern in every line of his posture, but clearly realises that his own injury prevents him from doing much to help. Realises, and despises. "Can he make it to the garrison?" he asks.

"'m fine," d'Artagnan says, supremely unconvincingly. "Jus' tired."

"You've lost a decent amount of blood," Aramis reminds him. "'Tired' is only part of it."

"Treville's rooms aren't too far from here," Porthos points out. "Let's head there."

By some miracle they make it before d'Artagnan's legs give out completely, but it's a near thing. They've all been in his shoes at one point (or several) or another; it's a rare soldier indeed who's never suffered the sudden draining of energy and will after a fight, regardless of injury.

Perhaps that's why, when Treville returns a short time later to find d'Artagnan sleeping on the floor in front of his desk and the rest of them arrayed similarly listlessly upon his furniture, he simply sighs, then sends for food and bandages.

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _halfway through writing this I realized that I have no idea where this arc would fit into canon, so in conclusion fuck the timeline._

 _also, I doubt most of you are super invested, but as some updates:_

 _1\. I graduated! I now have letters after my name, which is nifty_  
 _2\. It's about 99.8% guaranteed that I don't have TLE, after all, which is also nifty_  
 _3\. I don't want to jinx this (she said, preparing to jinx it), but I am working on some Fun Stuff that I am very excited about! I should have a decent amount of breathing room for the next couple of months, and if all goes well I'll be able to put some serious time into a long-simmering WIP and do some collaborating with some very awesome people on some very awesome stuff._

 _As always, thanks so much for reading!_


	23. harsh climate

_D'Artagnan gets sunburned, to his very own surprise_

 _this is hardly even whump, but i do what i want, and what i wanted was snark._

* * *

 _. . ._

* * *

"I'll be honest," Porthos says, "I didn't think you had it in you."

"Ha, ha," d'Artagnan says drily, gingerly easing into a shirt with Aramis' assistance. "I'm glad I still have _some_ secrets."

"Not any _good_ ones," Porthos mutters theatrically behind his hand, and d'Artagnan swings out a leg to kick him in the shin. "Ow, fuck!"

D'Artagnan hisses as well, as the movement somehow manages to pull the skin on his back. "Jesus," he complains, "is my whole fucking body going to hurt from this?"

"Probably," Aramis says brightly, but finishes settling the shirt over his sore shoulders. "Have you really never had a sunburn before?"

D'Artagnan turns slowly – slowly – to look at him over his shoulder, and gestures a loose circle around his face, encompassing his dark hair and Mediterranean complexion. " _Clearly_ , so I didn't think it would be an _issue_ this time."

Porthos laughs the laugh of a man protected by his melanin. D'Artagnan, currently feeling very betrayed by his own, gives him the finger.

"Well, let this be a lesson then," Aramis says. "If you're going to fall asleep on a beach in Morocco—"

"In July," Porthos is quick to add.

"—put on some sunblock first, or a shirt at the very least."

"Indecent exposure," Porthos tsks with a shake of his head. "Culturally insensitive, that."

"Fuck you," d'Artagnan says. "Seriously, fuck you. When we get back, I'm taking a power-sander to your back, and we'll see how _you_ like it."

"Nice thought, lobster boy, but I'd like to see you try to lift your arms that high."

D'Artagnan growls, but it's just for show. Porthos is probably right, as much as that literally and metaphorically hurts. Even the brush of soft cotton fabric over the burn feels like a brand, and he's had enough regular burns to know that the skin will be stiff and sore long after the sensitivity fades.

"This is going to be terrible, isn't it?" he asks, dropping his mock anger.

"Probably," Aramis says again, but with something approaching sympathy this time. "Once Athos gets back, we'll go to this meeting and get it over with. If you can get a good sleep tonight, and keep the inflammation down tomorrow, the flight home should be more or less bearable."

"Loving the optimism, Aramis, thank you."

"Why don't you talk to Athos?" Aramis suggests. "He's probably been in this situation before, he might have suggestions."

It takes a second to sink in, but when it does... " _What—_ Are— How have _I_ gotten sunburned but _you_ haven't?" he demands furiously. Sure, Aramis is part Chilean, but _come on_.

"Because I'm not an idiot?"

"He practically bathes in sunblock," Porthos agrees.

"Then why didn't anyone think to mention that to me _before_ letting me fall asleep?"

"We thought you'd be fine!"

It is only great strength of will, and knowledge of the horrible pain he would incur, that keeps d'Artagnan from flopping dramatically onto the bed behind him and groaning. Instead, he settles for putting his face (thankfully unburned) in his hands. And groaning.

"I hate you all. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, we know," Porthos says, audibly grinning. "You still love us, though."

"That's pushing it," d'Artagnan mutters. "If I get melanoma, you two are paying my hospital bills."

"You're not going to get melanoma," Aramis promises.

"Fine." He lifts his head from his hands to fix Porthos (the only one in his sightlines) with his steeliest glare. "But if _I'm_ miserable on the flight, you will _all_ be miserable on the flight."

"Fair enough."

(In hindsight, that probably wasn't his smartest threat, because he's pretty sure that Aramis doses him with some of Porthos' flying tranqs before they board. So, actually, maybe it _was_ his smartest threat, since it saves him about three hours of agony.)

((He's still going to get his revenge, though. Just because.))

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _aaand somehow this ended up fitting into yet another unwritten au-verse, namely, "the cracky and only loosely-based a-team au wherein athos is hannibal, aramis is face, porthos is BA, and d'artagnan is murdock." i make neither apologies nor excuses._


	24. explosion

_destroying the Spanish forces' supply of gunpowder isn't quite as easy as it looks_

* * *

. . .

* * *

If there's anything more disorienting than being flung to the ground by a fierce roar of sound and heat, Athos has yet to discover it. The first few moments after the impact are spent in shock, senses dulled and time seemingly slowed as he realises that yes, he is on the ground, no, he isn't dead, yes, there is a thick screen of dust and powder smoke in the air, no, he isn't blind.

Ears ringing, dirt and grit in his eyes and throat, he coughs, and pushes himself to his feet. His legs don't want to cooperate any more than his arms do, but he manages to get more or less upright.

A little ways off through the haze, he sees Porthos doing the same, and heads toward him, stumbling a bit on the uneven ground. They meet in the middle and grip each other's arms for balance, or reassurance, for stability.

"You all right?" Porthos asks. Athos can just barely make out the words through the high pitched humming in his ears, but nods all the same.

"You?"

"I'll live." Porthos starts to say something else, then turns away, and Athos has to grab his arm and pull him back around to figure out what. Porthos gives him a look, but repeats himself. "D'Artagnan," he says, and Athos curses internally.

Porthos tips his head and points back in the direction he'd been turning when Athos stopped him. "Last I saw, he was somewhere that way."

Athos sets off, the sleeve of Porthos' doublet still clutched in one hand, and they slog their way across the erstwhile battlefield. It's uncannily silent, now, but for the cries and groans of the wounded; without their powder, and closer to the explosion than their own men, the surviving Spanish had withdrawn. To where, Athos doesn't know, and doesn't really care. Lifting his eyes far enough to keep from tripping is a challenge in its own right— and, even as he thinks it, he stumbles on an outstretched limb.

His eyes shoot up reflexively, and there before him is an eerily familiar boot, protruding from a pile of bodies.

Porthos gives a shout, and Athos' muddled mind makes the connection a fraction of a second later: _D'Artagnan_.

Porthos rolls the first limp body from on top of him, leaving Athos to drop to the ground beside d'Artagnan as he drags the second one away. He's as dirt- and blood-encrusted as the rest of them, but there's something about the slackness of his features and the darkness of his lips that sends Athos' heart plummeting.

"D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan. _D'Artagnan."_ Athos pats his face, lightly at first, then slaps him with some force, hoping for something, _anything_ in reaction. D'Artagnan's head just lolls slightly in the dirt. "Wake _up_ , damn you!" Athos shouts, and hits him again.

This time, d'Artagnan's eyes fly open and he coughs harshly, trying to roll onto his side. Athos helps him, aided by Porthos, and together they steady him as he clears the ash and dust from his lungs. After several long moments of this, he finishes and spits, ridding the last of it from his mouth. There's a definite red tinge in the dirt, afterwards, and more around d'Artagnan's lips when slumps onto his back again and gives them a strained, shaky smile.

"Can't say that was the _most_ fun I've had recently," he rasps. "But I hope it earned us the afternoon off."

* * *

. . .

* * *

 _may or may not be finishing this up with some of the prompts from this year's whumptober, but I will be finishing it up!_


End file.
